All the Never-Haves
by Vengeance7xOver
Summary: A single idea can alter a day, or perhaps even a life. Any one person can create such an act, and it wouldn't be surprising if Sherlock Holmes woke up to such a day. {Sherlock-Molly by request; rating may change}
1. Eins

***My first ever Sherlock fiction,; tried to make it as canon as possible. This was a request from a friend a few weeks back.**

"Can I help you with something, gentlemen?" came the quiet question from behind the microscope, observant eyes flicking to the door. It would never cease to be a surprising sight; two civilians stepping into her office without Lestrade immediately in tow, accompanied by at least another handful of servicemen.

And surprise, surprise; Sherlock Holmes and the ever faithful Doctor Watson.

"Yes," John answered with the faintest of nods, pursing his lips unconsciously before he continued. "We're looking for a, ah, tri-beam balance. Lestrade didn't know if you still had your old ones…"

"They're in the back with the rest of the scales we don't use much anymore. I could grab you an electric one from here in the lab—."

"That simply won't do this time around," Sherlock interrupted. "We're going to need the basics."

"Oh, I—Alright. I can fetch one for you," she offered with hesitance in her stammering speech, clicking off the light at her station.

"Oh, no, I can get it just fine myself," the doctor replied, his compact stride bringing him toward the door at the back. He motioned her to stay as she seemed to persist, giving a reassuring smile before she could verbally object; If they were to waltz in demanding things, it was the least he could do. Grasping the cool metal of the bar, John gave one last glance back at the room. "Sherlock," he said, grabbing the man's attention. "Behave."

"But of course, John."

Watson rolled his eyes, attention adverting forward as he tugged open the heavy entrance, stepping into the dark abyss of the storage facility only after a split-second survey.

"What do you need the balance for?" Molly asked, hands falling thoughtlessly back onto the scope before her. "I didn't think you two were working a case right now…"

"We are—We always are," the taller affirmed, long steps guiding him patiently around the lab. "There have been two samples collected from separate crime scenes; exact same amount of each. What may differ is what's inside. If they're equivalent in weight, we might just have a serial killer on our hands, and if they're not, we have a killer and a try hard who was misinformed."

"So you've been put on the Victor case?" she asked, brows knit in puzzlement on her pale face. She couldn't recall, for the life of her, hearing the murmur of Holmes that usually accompanied his presence on a case.

"In a round-about sort of way-."

"Lestrade doesn't know about this, does he?"

"He has his suspicions." Sherlock smirked, eyes falling to the hands resting at the lens adjustments, noting how they trembled ever in the slightest. Fascinating.

"So you came here to get what you wanted in order to break our laws, then? You know I could lose my job if you keep doing this-."

"Never fear, dear Molly. I'd never put you in such a position. What kind of a man do you think I am?"

"I'm still trying to figure that one out, Holmes." She stepped away, hands falling to her sides before lifting to the stack of books on the end of her lab.

"Allow me," he offered, taking the pile from her hold. Baffled, she nodded, motioning to a clear space near where she'd left her bag. This wasn't Sherlock, not in the least.

"So are you turning us in?"

Molly unconsciously bit as her lower lip, sight wandering over her work tables and equipment in an attempt to calm the disease in her chest. "No, not if this is the last time," she answered, voice so quiet she wasn't sure if she'd truly spoken.

"I can assure you, it will be. At least for this case," the detective flashed a small smile despite that no eyes were on him across the room. She turned her back to him as he placed the books, frazzled thoughts coming to an end. _There _he was.

"'This case'," she repeated quietly without thought, plucking samples up and snapping their lids on.

"Is there a problem?" If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought he sounded distant.

"No." Molly turned, finding it a surprise that the other remained across the room. He had a habit of getting close when he wanted something. _Perhaps he already got it, then…_

The storage door squealed open, accompanied with a small cough and a faint ploom of dust as the war-worn Doctor Watson appeared, a triple-beam balance stuffed under his arm. "Got it," he declared as he motioned to the piece, his throat giving another small fit from the grime.

"Right, then," Sherlock nodded, eyes coming between the two. "We should get going, John, so as to return it as soon as possible to the lovely Miss Hooper."

John glanced between the two of them, one wearing an equally startled expression as himself, the other sporting a calm façade. Whatever it was, it was obviously that of Sherlock's abundance of quizzical antics, something he was sure he'd never live to explain.

Following the detective to the door, the blond gave one final glance back, speaking through the thick air of confusion his companion had left, before accompanying him out. "Thank you again, Molly."

"Of course," she half-heartedly replied despite the door sliding back in place. She furrowed her brows, closing her eyes in wonder. Sure, Holmes had played nice before, but always to get what he wanted. He got the balance, so why had he kept up his game?

"Molly?"

She jumped at hearing her name, eyes flying open to identify her visitor. Sally. Of course.

"Yes?" she answered innocently enough, forcing back the quake that otherwise might have tainted her speech.

"You alright? I saw Holmes was just here with that doctor friend of his…"

"I'm fine, Sally," the younger assured, straightening the lab coat on her shoulders.

"Alright," the woman shrugged, beginning to the door. "Your shift is over in a few minutes. Care to drink?"

"Oh, I don't—I don't drink," she shook her head, approaching her bag by the door.

"You sure?"

"I'm-," she began, eyes following the shape of a book placed in her open bag. "I-I'm sure, Sally. Really." She fished the object out, the familiar feel of her datebook filling her hands.

"Suit yourself."

Her fingers pulled the band from around the cover, opening to where the marker had been stuck between two expanses of pages. Eying over the numbered boxes, she found a scratching not of her own writing, not even her utensil, as it remained tucked in the breast of her coat. The uneasy smile that crossed her face came accompanied by streaks of pink over he cheeks, head spinning with the words she read over and over.

_Dinner with SH_

_Roswell Winery_

_427 Wilbero Street_

_19:30_


	2. Zwei

***A little long, and still not entirely happy with it, but here ya go! I'm pretty sure there's just one update left; I just wanted this to be a short little drabble after having done a really long (for me, anyways) story for Blade II. **

"Thought you didn't drink," came a familiar voice from the stool behind. Molly jumped lightly, spinning herself to face away from the entrance she'd been watching ever anxiously.

"Sally?" she asked, smiling in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I _told_ you I was going out for drinks. I brought Anderson along, being as you declined," she motioned back to the booth where the particularly vexed man resigned. "Decide to come alone?"

"No, I, uh," Molly stammered, glancing to the wall clock strung high on the partition of the over-worked kitchen staff and the fresh-shift bartenders, reading quarter to the eighth hour. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Oooh," the older teased, smile widening with her surprise. "Who's the lucky catch?"

"Well-." _Sherlock Holmes_ wasn't quite the best thing to answer. There were a thousand other names that were easier to say- safer too. Telling _Sally Donovan_ you were about to catch a date—if that's what this was—with Sherlock Holmes was as bad of an idea as they came.

"Come on, out with it. Do I know him?" the woman urged, glancing away from the blossoming face. Her smile deteriorated slowly, pushing away from the bar top she'd been leaning on.

"What?" Molly asked, hesitantly following the other's gaze behind her. In the open doorway stood a tall silhouette, fitted in a dark trench coat and slacks, black curls forming around a pale, unforgettable face.

"Don't tell me _that's_ it."

"Sherlock…"

A smile appeared on the man's face as pale blue orbs cast her direction, one not unlike the hundreds she knew he'd faked before.

"Molly," he greeted as he took the final steps to her side, shrugging off his coat. "…Female Anderson."

"Classy, Holmes. The Hell do you think you're doing here?"

He gave a prominent _tisk_, his head falling to a slight cock. "Your deduction skills worsen and worsen each time we meet, Miss Donovan. You might consider enlisting in some classes before they become so faint even Lestrade cannot find the sympathy to let you cling to your employment," the detective countered, taking his seat at the opposing side of the pathologist.

"Fine." The officer slipped from the bar stool in a defeat she'd deem annoyance. "Have fun, Molly. Don't show up to work _cold_ tomorrow."

" 'Cold?' " Molly repeated, tearing her eyes away from Sally's fleeing figure to Sherlock's face.

"It's remarkably one of the nicest things she says about me," he answered with a smile, motioning to the bartender with two fingers. _Lord only knew what that she'd get._

"What," she began, shifting in her seat. "What exactly brought this on? You're not the first person I'd have thought to do something like this…"

"And what, precisely, is _this_—to you, of course?"

"Well—it seems a date."

"And why could I not seem one to propose it? I'm more than capable of going for a bite."

"But with a plus one?" she asked, brows furrowing at his casualty, most unlike his answer.

"Have you ever thought about death? – Well, I'm sure you have, with your occupation stationing you in a morgue and all—but I mean what you leave behind. You can leave money, a legacy, a memory, property, or nothing at all. It depends on your actions as a living person. You can _change_ what you leave behind and how much that thing means to one or one thousand people—And I'm speaking far beyond what you settle in your will just before you kick the can. If I were to die today, this morning for instance, I'd have left John, a dear friend who's seen plenty of comrades die before me, and Mrs. Hudson, one of the most stupendous women I've come to know. I suppose you could consider my address on Baker Street left behind, though I would not due to the fact that it can be repurchased and, with a little paint and plaster, it was like I was never there at all. I'd consider a legacy in order, as I've solved numerous crimes here in our fair England, though that legacy makes many loathe the memory. What's a man to do with the thought of dying alone when he'd young enough to challenge such fate?" He took a breath for what seemed like finally, ceasing his speech to ask, "What is it?"

Molly had to pause to swallow. "How long have you been thinking about this, Sherlock?"

"Roughly since this morning, why?"

Molly's brows raised, her lips unconsciously turning up into a faint smile. "You really are something, Sherlock Holmes. Our whole lives may change because of a single thought you had this morning."

"Well, not a single thought," the man corrected, keen eyes set carefully on hers. "But a series of them, leading to one conclusion. And as for making a decision, any one person can wake up to create a different world for themselves or others. One could muster the guts to set off a bomb, as another could decide to do nothing at all. For instance, you could've stayed in bed this morning; skipped work and unknowingly dodged my invitation—but you didn't. So, in fact, we've both made separate decisions that could change the course of our lives because, after all, you didn't have to show up here tonight."

"Do you ever just—get tired of thinking so much?" she asked innocently, color rising to tint her cheeks a flattering rosy pink.

"Why ever would I" he countered, raising a drink placed at the bar. He took a swallow from the glass, the glistening gold of its contents suggesting scotch. _That_ was certainly strange.

"Isn't it ever exhausting, having no down time?" she continued to pepper quietly, gingerly fingering her own glass in circles, too nervous to delve right into it.

"Down time _is_ exhausting. You sit and occupy yourself with nothing; letting boredom eat at you. What exactly is enticing of it?"

Though the question had a rhetorical quality about itself in the deep tenor, she had every intention of enlightening him.

"Down time is not empty, Holmes, it's only void of the stress of work-."

"The stress?" he cut in. "You must be going about it the wrong way."

"You fail to understand, Sherlock—What you and I deem as work is very different; What it is you do, for the most part, is recreational. You spend all your time wrapped in it like a blanket to hide from the bustling social world around you. You have no boss to look to, your payment of service a disinterest to you. In my line, I work at the morgue, my boss is Lestrade, and I don't examine bodies for the fun of it-."

"Oh, never for the fun. Cadavers are rarely a pleasant dealing by the time they reach the slab."

Molly's eyes narrowed, her brows pulling together. "You're missing my point entirely-."

" 'Examine bodies _for the fun of it—_' " he spoke out of turn, the deep tenor pulling her in. "That last bit has nothing to do with the topic of choice, nor your argument that work is the same as stress. It's a message you didn't mean to convey, isn't it? You're frightened all the same as anyone else; just as suspicious as Anderson or Donovan… But there's a difference, isn't there? One you're hiding under the veil of fake confidence I'm sane or the mockery of an idea that I can do no harm. You don't, in truth, believe in me as I am; you look in too deep just as everyone else, but you're not only nervous, as they are, no. You're intrigued, excited even—you want to learn without losing the thrill of being in the dark, don't you?"

"Did you just figure this, too, out this morning?" came Molly's faint voice, her eyes blinking away.

"Oh, Heavens no. This one's been a long time coming." He took another drink for the parchment of speech, motioning with a free hand to the bar. "Won't you have a drink?"

"I'm a bit involved in the conversation, if you don't mind, I—is it obvious?" she stammered despite her best efforts. The poison, she was convinced, would only farther deteriorate the confidence she clung so dearly to to speak.

"That depends; to me, yes, to others, no. They don't look deep enough, or pay _any_ mind for that matter. One day Lestrade is going to have to realize that his department is full of incompetent nitwits who know less than those _outside_ the yellow tape," he did his best to control the growl of his words, giving a short shake of his head that ruffled his curls. "Save for you, it's an embarrassment down there."

"Sally's not all that bad, you know," she peeped, a hint of a smile finding the corners of her lips.

"I wouldn't expect you to think anything else of her."

"And you-."

"And I mean by that, you're not there when we are. You don't have to _feel _the radiance of her stupidity while she's out on the job… It's exasperatingly aggravating; All the job takes is _looking_ and maybe a thought or two. Not difficult."

"For _you_."

"Hmm?"

"It's not difficult for_ you_."

"Of course not. Why else would I be so fired on the matter?"

"Exactly."

"Do elaborate, Dear Molly."

"I believe what you truly fail to understand is that which you've known all along." Her smile spread, bringing light to her weary eyes.

"Enlighten me, then. I couldn't think of a thing I would miss so-."

"It's not the same," she answered, a soft chuckle finding her at the confusion on his face. "_You're_ not the same, and you've known that all along. Christ, Watson tells you every day—'Incredible,' 'magnificent,' 'amazing' – there _is_ no one that thinks like you, Sherlock. Things that are easy for you _baffle_ scientists, engineers—nations. You just have to learn to be more tolerable for those of us that cannot fathom such achievements."

Quiet music drifted throughout the winery, the likes of Philip Wesley easing conversations to a murmur of noise consistently in the facility. The only voice above another's to be heard was Sally's, though only through one with an ear for it, seated ways away in a booth with the secondary choice of hers.

Molly was deaf to it, consumed in the silence of Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Drei

***Okay, so I went ahead and decided I wanted to upload the last update. It's short, as it was intended to be, and I hope you like it. Thank you for reading!**

Molly Hooper had never been a liar, nor had she started that day. Save for the wine, she'd deprived herself the right of drink at every instance the poison arose. She'd seen body after body—cadaver upon cadaver—of men and women who lost themselves in the drain of substance; stepped as boldly as they never would have dared sober, leading themselves and others to slaughter. One binge she dared take.

Tonight, she laughed so hard she kept a constant wipe at her eye; spoke through the deepest conversations she had since she'd been at study. She had felt the flutter from a compliment sugar coated in its subtle form, alongside the furrow of her brow at a long overdue tale. It was a whirl of emotional transition that'd leave her exhausted from the night, past what any drink she threw would give her.

She owed it all. And she owed it to him, the man most deemed psychotic, a hazard to her health, who had so simply given her a night unmistakably better than she'd ever thought she could hold dear.

Sally hadn't left the winery, even into the hours Anderson had long-since gone. If the pair of them had noticed, they expressed no mind to her, even as they, themselves, stepped out the door, a drunken tangle of chuckles and accented whispers. Trailing had been Donovan's intentions, losing them halfway along as the pair's cab split on the long route home, only arriving at 221 B once the sun began to rise.


End file.
